


anywhere, i would've followed you

by colferstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex, bottom!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colferstilinski/pseuds/colferstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Stiles coming back home after a long work trip to find Derek masturbating in the shower and then joining him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	anywhere, i would've followed you

**Author's Note:**

> For Diana because she gave me a wonderful prompt and I managed to write it in a day after being so thoroughly inspired. Then, I got a little cheeky with the feelings and whatever not, don't blame me-- blame Stiles and Derek. They have invoked it!
> 
> P/s: It's severely unbeta'd, all errors would be corrected when I'm more alert and less like death *o* Enjoy the porn, babies. (Also, if there are more 'British' usage of words, I apologize because I've recently joined the 1D fandom and yeah. I blame One Direction, that's all. G'day folks.

When Stiles gets his bags out from the boot of the cab, it’s already dark out. The skies are smattered with glitter and his body achingly welcomes the sense of familiarity, wraps itself around it really.

He’s been caged in for the past week at New York for an impromptu business trip. It’s for a graphic designs seminar for the graduating seniors at some fancy university that his agent sternly advised him to not decline as it would give positive repertoire on his portfolio.

He can’t _decline_ as he’s already burgeoning to becoming the youngest illustrator and copyrighter in the industry—without an international company’s brand backing his name.

It’s a great feat but, it doesn’t mean he _wanted_ to go to New York for it. There _is_ a reason why he never joined a company and it’s solely that he can base work and personal life in the same state—without leaving anyone behind for his responsibilities.

He thinks that too many people already have left. Be it through death (shudders when he thinks that it’s already been eight years since Boyd and Erica passed), or circumstances (damn Whittemore) or fucking supernatural shenanigans (the list is endless, still pours on them sometimes). He’s not going to leave.

Yet, Derek persuades, and croons, and tells him with an urging grin to go for it for two weeks straight that it almost drove Stiles _mad_.

He said, “Stiles, you’ve been held back by this small town for years and I’m not going to—Just. It’ll be for a week, and you’ll be back home before you know it.” He pressed a kiss at his temple when Stiles tried to argue. “Our bed will miss you— _I_ will miss you. But, it’ll be good for your career. If you’re not going to do it for yourself, then do it for me? Please?”

It’s the last note; an encompassing syllable that Derek pleaded which managed it.

So, Stiles packed his things and then he’s on a plane, watching the diffusion of pale pink skies and the horizon dipping further under the flurry of clouds and light.

That’s a week ago and Stiles is immensely happy to finally be back home (their _home_ , can you believe it?) He has airplane grime on his skin and floppy, greasy hair from twisting them into his fingers during the entire flight but it still beat, by acres, from neon lights and caricature personalities on the busy streets of the sleepless city.

“Derek? Stiles croaks out, wary how his voice sounds enormous in the deadened silence of the apartment.

It’s almost midnight and Derek should be asleep. The man’s twenty-eight but sleeps like a child with a bedtime schedule so Stiles’ not all surprised, heightened werewolf abilities be damned. He’s even heard him snort-snore once which Derek will deny on all circumstances— _‘I do not fucking_ snore _, Stiles. You need to get your ears checked. Or, better still, maybe stop watching me sleep like one of those Twilight characters you so fancy_ ’.

He slips his shoes off and leaves the luggage haphazardly at the door before toeing his way up the stairs up to their bedroom. The bed is made on one side, his side. The one that’s closer to the door. Derek once explained that he likes having his back against the windows—says that it distances Stiles away from the night.

It’s quite ironic but, touching—Derek is totally a secret romantic.

Derek’s side of the bed, however, is sprawled messily and absent with heat. The only thing lying on the crumpled sheets is an opened autobiography book that he’s been trying to finish for the past month and Stiles always love teasing him for being a slow reader.

When his mind finally decides to compute with logic, Stiles realizes that the water is running from the adjoined bathroom, door left slightly ajar. It’s odd because Derek never takes showers this late at night except for whenever he’s getting himself cleaned for—

_Oh._

If Stiles was a better man, he would announce his presence but he’s not. Never has been and that’s how he motherfucking rolls—all the haters to the damn corner, so be it. Derek could hate him later on but he’s an even bigger, kinkier bastard than Stiles is, so he’s not even going to hold his breath on that.

Stiles takes a tiny peek and tells himself that it’s just going to be for a quick second. It’ll just be a thwarted glimpse of his beautiful boyfriend in all his glorious nakedness since he’s gone almost celibate for a week.

Derek isn’t big on sexting and because he takes prude on the next level, won’t even send a picture of his lovely dick when Stiles is on day two in New York, uncomforted by the sharp corners of the hotel room and inconsolable erection tenting up his boxers.

 _Just_ —orgasms with his right hand isn’t as great when he’s got a long-term boyfriend who complies to all his sex orientated fantasies.

A fast glance soon turns into blown out gawking.

The glass panelling around the shower stall is already thinly coated with steam and suds while Derek braces his forehead on his arm that’s pressing onto the wall, the other working frantically at his cock, all purpled and weeping with foam.

Derek’s working himself up into little whimpering noises, clearly too distracted to even hear the pummel of Stiles’ heart against his ribcage. Then, he tilts his head up when he swipes a thumb under the cockhead, and he looks absolutely and gorgeously profound, as though he belongs to an addition for the seven deadly sins.

It strikes gold and heat into the low of Stiles’ spine, turns the ache of having missed home to wanting to lodge himself cock deep and balls sitting against Derek’s ass, knowing that he’s come back to a _home_ that holds no location in the maps of States.

Stiles strips his clothes off desperately and releases a small, breathless gasp when he finally gets the button of his jeans off, tugging the frustrating material off until his cock flops out, jutting upright and fattened with arousal, already wetting at the slit.

It’s almost record breaking that he manages to get hard this fast—like he’s seventeen again, and Derek backed him up against the jeep, breath heavy and pursuing before he leaned in, swooped away their first kiss with nature resounding against their skin.

Stiles steps into the show and doesn’t hesitate to side up against his body, pressing front to the accentuated lines of Derek’s back—feels them almost melding and joining like perfect brackets or chain locks. The distance and separation between them for the past week melts and cascades off their bodies and tunnels away, further until how it’s left is heat, and familiarity, and _welcome home, lover._

Derek startles and arches back into the bracket of his arms, looping at the waist and hovers at the bumping muscles of his abdomen.

“Stiles? Fuck. You’re home? I—” He’s still working his cock up but slows the momentum, just enough to get the punch of words out. “I couldn’t—didn’t hear you.” Releases a shaky exhale. “ _Stiles_. You’re _home._ ”

It’s surreal that it’s then that Stiles gets punched with the spontaneous surge of how much he has actually missed Derek, despite already being _here_ , touching skin with him.

It has been a week without him—a gruelling, emptied week.

No morning kisses from Derek against Stiles’ cheeks where it’s smushed against pillows and in awful white. Or a cup of orange juice that he forces Stiles to drink at the start of the day because _it’s healthier than coffee and it gives you the same boost for energy,_ before he leaves to school for work with a briefcase, slanted tie and graded papers for his kids spilling at his hands.

“They decided to end the seminar a day early. Wanted t’ surprise you.” Stiles whispers and then hisses when Derek backs up to him, cock slipping against the cleft of his ass cheeks, greeting his cock with placating pleasure.

“God—I’ve missed you.” Derek whines and he’s gripping his cock tight again, making shallow bucking hip thrusts. “Been s’ lonely here, too quiet without you. Long nights and annoying crickets.”

“I’m home now, not gon’ leave for a long time after this. Not wantin’ to leave for a while, or, fuck—maybe forever.”

“I don’t mind,” Derek says quietly, almost a whisper of a confession. “As long you come back to me. Always come back to me. Christ, I sound like one of those indie bands you make me listen—all mopey, and a sordid, aching lover.”

Stiles grins, teeth against shoulder blades because he understands. Even though Derek is his high school sweetheart, have been with him for almost a decade—he finally completely and concretely understand that home’s nowhere without Derek Hale.

Hell, they could be stranded on an island with no shelter, the moon a fading, pale star that holds no barrier and no entities beyond the creatures that speak another language; it’ll still feel like warmth if Derek’s there—all golden skin and muted love.

“I’ve missed you so much.” Stiles tells, slipping a hand down to cover Derek’s, fingers wrapping and twining as he joins the steady tug and pull of his cock. “Missed touching you, hearing those little moans that you make when I do you just right, just nice and _fuck_ —I’ve not whacked one out in days, babe.”

“Me too. _Oh_ —” Derek’s breath hitches when Stiles’ hand roams down to his balls, fondles them at the centre of his palm, careful and deliberate.

“Didn’t wanna touch myself but then I kept thinking that you’re coming back to me tomorrow and I got so hard, Stiles—got m’self so worked up thinking how you’re going to fuck your welcome into my ass.”

Stiles bites against his shoulder, muffling the groan that leaves his chest from how much he wants that. It’s almost impossible for his dick to swell any harder, but it _does_. Fuck, he’s so hard that it throbs, pulls so tight from the tips of his toes and stretches so tight under his skin.

It feels like he’s a coil that’s been wrung too tight, barely enabling before he finally snaps and god, Stiles wants to shove his orgasm deep inside Derek, until the come leaks out early in the morning, staining their sheets.

“That what you want me to do? Want me to have you fucked out and sated?” Stiles rumbles, using his spare hand to glide it’s away across bare fuzzed skin until it meets at the starting curve of his ass.

He scratches tenderly at the flesh and Derek _whimpers_ , vibrates and shakes under him. He’s always been so responsive, either telling Stiles that he’s doing things right or wrong, or by instigating them through the symphony of high, breathless moans or croaked, guttural groans.

Stiles _loves_ it, soaks up in the reverence of it—is passionately in love that people would _never_ see this side of Derek. Those old, sleazy scumbags that look so keenly at Derek whenever they have a night out at a bar with Scott and Isaac, eyeing him and his crotch but they don’t get to take him home—would never revel the feeling of being inside Derek, flushed tight and a heat that scorches upon his cockhead.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Derek chants and his hand isn’t fucking into his cock anymore, instead edges in a tight fist at the base. “Want that, want you. Always want you.”

Stiles leans back a little, appropriating some space between their bodies and immediately feels the draw of damp coldness as they separate. Derek whines, tells him to come back but Stiles instructs him instead to lean against the shower wall, bending himself in a little.

“Can’t fuck you if you’re not prepared, _c’mon_. Work with me, sweet.”

Derek complies and Stiles watches the move of muscles on his back as he stretches and positions himself, legs apart with balls and cock hanging heavily in front. He’s an absolute wet dream and if Stiles had Derek like this when he was seventeen, all flitting hormones and boy limbs—he’d be creaming himself by now.

Stiles spreads his cheeks apart, watches  pale skin veiling with dark hair spread until he sees the light dusting of flesh, tight and wrinkled and almost begging for his fingers to fuck him open as Derek clenches down.

The water’s still running warm, they probably have another twenty minutes before it cuts off with cold and it’s more than enough—the bed is too far, so is the lube and he needs to be inside Derek in the next two minutes or he’s going to combust into fragments of unfiltered _need._

He pops a finger into his mouth, suckles at it until they’re well coated with the slimy slick of saliva then he’s urging it around the rim of Derek’s hole. It’s teasing actions at first, and Derek’s grunting “Stop being a fucking tease, fuck. You could play my body out later—with sheets and where we won’t slip but now’s not the fuckin’ time.”

Stiles gives in but it’s mostly because of how desperate Derek sounded, like he’d genuinely choke if he doesn’t have his cock stuffed into this asshole soon. That he needs Stiles as much as Stiles needs him, and fuck—it’s been a week so he’s not going to delay anymore.

He presses in and Derek lets out this quiet hiss—the kind that whenever someone finally sinks themselves in and invades the solemn privacy of the other party’s but encompasses it with such sensuality, as though they’re actually finally meeting at the lines of the dots and becomes _one_ instead of two halves of a whole.

“Was thinkin’ of this earlier, in bed.” Derek murmurs and he’s panting while Stiles works his finger steadily, keeps the tempo like a soothing ballad. “Of you opening me up, preparing me until I’m ready.”

Stiles hums because he knows if he speaks now, it’ll be raspy and pitchy. Instead, he watches, tracks how his finger sinks into Derek’s body, notes how his hole quivers and clench as though needing more.

He knows they need lube since saliva dries out fast, makes the friction becomes increasingly sticky and rough against the soft flesh of Derek’s insides so he adjusts them under the spray of the shower head, water sluicing off the sharp edges of Derek’s shoulders and beating down against his chest.

“Think you could take two now, babe?” Stiles asks, bottom lip quivering. Derek nods with his entire body, feels the compass of his being shaking under him as he motions yes, giving his uttered consent wholly with movement.

Stiles lets the water gather against Derek’s back, watches the sheen of water glitter down planes and skin he’s adored and worshiped a million times before he sinks two digits in slowly.

A breathless hitch urges out from Derek and then he’s growling, with more fangs than teeth, “Get on it, you fucker. I’ve prepped myself in less than a minute. Just— _get to it_. I’m a werewolf, I can fucking _deal_ with it.”

Stiles smirks even though his cock keens desperately, blurting wetness against the backs of Derek’s thigh. He ducks down, leaves a chaste peck at the back of his nape, where his hair is matted against skin and nips teasingly as if telling _be quiet and let me love you rightly_.

He scissors his fingers, pulls them apart and then twists them upwards, slowly loosening the raw, unworked muscles. It’s a delicate art—shattering Derek wholly before he pieces all the broken fragments together with kisses, and combined sweat and unadulterated adoration.

“Please—just, _fuck me now_.” Derek hisses brokenly, panting and his eyes are clenched tight. His cock is a bruised shade, left alone in between his thighs and bobbing with staccato twitches whenever Stiles caresses against that delicate point.

The mixture of Stiles’ need and Derek’s high, yearning sobs soak into his skin and it dissolves, prunes into smaller memories on every awaken cell. He fucks his fingers deeper, twisting his wrist before he slips them out and Derek weeps his name like a tormented soul, coating wishes out onto stars.

“Gonna fuck you now,” Stiles says and he sounds beyond wrecked, almost as though he’s been shouting himself hoarse. “Don’t touch yourself. Want you to come around my cock—by just that. No hands, no friction. Just me fucking that overdue orgasm out of you.”

Derek chokes, nodding and Stiles— _god_ , he’s so in love with this man.

He thinks that if Derek ever leaves him or comes to the decision that he doesn’t want to continue building a life for themselves, with possible future kids (he’s thinking four surrogates, and maybe two adoptions), would utterly _ruin_ him.

There’s nobody else he would want to share all these little moments with and that fucking _terrifies_ him.

And he just—he _can’t_ so, Stiles just tips Derek’s chin back and kisses him squarely. The angle is awkward and he’s mouthing more at the curl of Derek’s lips but he _needs_ to translate the running thoughts, the accumulated foundation of their love and all the words he never likes to say because they’re clichés.

Derek’s digging fingernails on his thighs and Stiles knows then that he gets it. So, he pulls away, a thin string of spit pulling between their mouths before it breaks and dribbles down Derek’s chin. Then he has a hand on his cock, hissing when he finally works his cock against the shaft after ignoring it the entire time.

When the blunt of his cockhead presses at the tight rim of Derek’s, urging and sinking slowly, Stiles grits his teeth and customizes to the tight, blinding and heated pressure quickly enveloping his cock.

“Fuck—I’ve missed this.” Derek makes out in wet, garbled breaths. “When you’re just edging your way inside me, so particularly, like as though I’m the human and you’re the big bad. God, you take care of me so well, Stiles. Nobody—nobody compares.”

Stiles is squinting his eyes now because fuck, he’s going to come so painfully fast. Derek’s still not loosen well enough and the walls of his ass are clenching down against Stiles’ cock, mouthing a different type of slick he’s usually accustomed to—almost like if he pulls out and thrusts back in, it’ll be too jagged and harsh.

When he’s finally deep seated nicely inside Derek, Stiles lets out a breath he’s been holding—a gust of an exhale that heats against his face.

“Oh god, feels like I’m fucking the virgin you eight years ago,” Stiles babbles and he’s keeping his hands busy by stroking every inch of skin he’s able to touch from his angle, straying whenever they start to dip down to the v of his torso. “So tight—so hot. Y’r a fuckin’ wet dream, Derek.”

Derek probably wanted to reply him; maybe bite out a _move, asshole_ but then Stiles slips back an inch or two before he slams back into that heat with a force that presses Derek’s body against the wall, ricocheting his cries of _god, yes, Stiles—oh, yes._ He fucks in earnest, chases that sweet, stunning warmth until his ears burn out with white noise and it’s just a rhapsody of skin slapping and the fall of water that sounds like the beginnings of a hurricane.

“This what you wanted?” Stiles says with a grunt, snapping hips and bruising fingers onto Derek’s hips. “Want me to fuck you until you remember my place inside you? Until I bruise your pretty asshole with my come? Or just want my dick inside you for the rest of the week to make it up for the past few days?”

“Fuck—yes,” Derek whines, sobbing into the tiles. He’s not even pushing back into Stiles anymore, just letting him control the movement and letting him use his body like a little fuck toy. “N’vr want you to leave. Stay inside me f’r a long time. Don’t leave.”

“Never gonna—” Stiles starts and then he feels the tipping build of his orgasm creeping up the back of thighs, burning with the use of his muscles. “God, tell me you’re going to come soon because I can’t—”

“Please, just—want you,” Derek yammers out and he’s not making any sense anymore, just a litany of _more,_ and _nearly there_ , and _Stiles,_ gonna—then his cock feels like it’s suddenly burning with compact heat, pulling out the very last strings of his control before he creams inside Derek.

Stiles fucks the last of his come out with abortive thrusts until his cock stops spurting white and his toes aren’t curling under the floor tiles. He’s still balls deep inside Derek and its sweet slick and radiant warmth on the over sensitized skin of his dick while breathing heavily.

It feels like he’s finally sucking air into his lungs after a whole week of not exactly existing but now he’s back home, wounded and twined into the scared place that’s now painted with his name and his being. Maybe it’s not only Derek that breaks apart whenever they have sex, make love—fuck, _whichever_ , but Stiles does too. Leaves a part of him inside Derek and hopes that it stays and scents in him until the next time.

“I missed you,” Derek finally says when their breathing shallows and the water is on the verge of hitting cool.

His cock slips out finally, unwilling to stay inside since he’s gone soft now. Then Derek’s turning around and Stiles finally sees him properly instead the back of him, all jet black hair and family tattoo. Derek leans in and kisses him, properly this time—not that previous bullshit that Stiles pulled moments ago but kind of soul wrecking, leaves him breathless and flaccid cock twitching against his thigh.

“Ditto, babe.” Stiles grins meekly, exhaustion already pouring in his veins. He pushes away the stray wisps of hair matting against Derek’s forehead then murmurs against his grainy cheek. “I’m not leaving again—I don’t even fucking care if Pixar called me up to give a speech for a day or two.  I’m calling the shots now.”

“Okay,” Derek acquiesces and gives him another peck even though his eyes glint with obvious disapproval. “We should get cleaned up and then move this to the bed, yeah?”

Stiles considers it for a beat, thinks of his come still slowly leaking onto Derek’s thighs and wonders how many loads he could stain his asshole with before the night breaks through. “Don’t—I mean. We’re going to get dirty again and… I really like the idea of you being, uh, full with, y’know.” He whispers. “My come.”

Derek snorts and his eyes are so fond, twinkles like the colours of nebula. “Welcome home, baby.” And it sounds a lot like those three words they never do say because it’s not necessary anymore—not after battling horrifying creatures because I love you means a lot less than _I’d die for you_ but still never greater than _I’ll live for you._

“Thank you,” Stiles answers, cups his face as he leans in for one last peck, unsaid words bruising into that kiss before they retire out of the bathroom. 

**FIN**


End file.
